by Donia Bijan
Farah countered this lack of warmth with tenderness. If they had a few friends, if they were invited to an occasional party or hosted a dinner, it was because of her efforts. On the rare occasion that they had company, Morad insisted that Farah address him as “Doktor,” thus encouraging the guests to do the same. He did not allow her to serve salted pistachios or any noise-making hors d’oeuvres, unable to bear the human conveyor splitting the shells, the kernels traveling to munching molars while another nut was already being cracked between the right and left thumb.
He endured these meals grudgingly, questioning her motives, the purchase of filet mignon or champagne for “people who don’t know a filet from a donkey’s rump” and wrinkling his nose at her beautiful roast, with a sneer that called to mind his grandmother, Elena. How well Morad carried these ancestral features—the narrowing of his eyes as though he needed glasses and the dismissive smirk were family heirlooms that couldn’t be hidden in the back of a closet like furs but were imprinted on his face and passed along to his young daughter.
When she was a girl in Iran, the youngest and plainest of four daughters, Farah allowed herself to dream of marrying a strong, handsome man like Omar Sharif and living in a home very similar to the one where she was growing up. In these dreams her husband came through the door every evening and swept her into a passionate embrace. And there were children, too. Four or five of them, well-mannered and scrubbed clean. Morad had fit that picture, more or less, but after Marjan was born he announced that he would have a vasectomy and did not want any more children. “You have a nice healthy girl. Why should we take a chance of having an imperfect child?” When she touched his sleeve to plea, he withdrew. Brokenhearted, Farah went along to get along. It was as if she truly believed that underneath this hard shell of a man, there was a bruised little boy who missed his big brother and needed her unconditional love.
Conversation being a task for Morad, he had given Farah an abbreviated version of the family history and she had mostly believed it, until a trip to Iran unveiled a mild-mannered brother-in-law and a gentle Pari who welcomed her like a sister. Only in movies had she seen a man gaze so lovingly at a woman. Zod’s attention to Pari, his vigil, really, was tireless. He anticipated his wife’s thirst, chill, hunger, fatigue, without fawning, but that was just his way, he did the same for his customers as if he was there solely to serve. Pari would say he was a mind reader because Zod knew before you knew that you had to lie down, that you preferred your peach peeled and cucumbers salted. It crippled him sometimes, carrying all this information, and Pari would stir warm milk with honey, pluck the wrinkly skin off its surface, and carry it to the easy chair where Zod waited for her to rub his temples. To their sister-in-law they seemed more like friends than husband and wife when they exchanged inside jokes and comic imitations of customers. Their lightheartedness filled her with longing.
Farah learned just from watching daytime talk shows that people went to psychiatrists for wounds far less severe than her husband’s, but it was unthinkable to suggest as much to Morad, who took great pride in his sanity versus his family’s madness. During twenty years of marriage, their worst argument had been over Morad’s refusal to attend his father’s funeral in Iran. In response to Farah’s pleas, he refused to speak to her for months—an interpersonal cold war dear to Iranians called ghaar, wherein the sole strategy is to break communication for an indefinite period of time over a minor offense or simply to avoid confrontation. It is at once a verb, an adjective, and a noun: Zod and Pari rarely ghaared with each other; North Korea is ghaar with America; the dentist’s ghaar with her hygienist meant she had to do the cleanings herself. Farah’s own aunt had been ghaar with her mother over a borrowed tablecloth returned with a tea stain, which lasted six years until Farah’s mother died and the person who shed the loudest tears was the pigheaded auntie.
Years ago Morad severed himself from his family and hurtled himself across the world without fanfare and, unlike many in exile, never dreamed of a grand homecoming or harbored fantasies of a return. It sickened him that Iranians cherished their past and their intangible properties. Whenever fellow countrymen pined for home—Ah, but give me anything that resembles the majestic peak of Mount Damavand! Oh, such happy summers on the Caspian shore!—a blue vein rippled across his wide forehead and he’d recall the repelling sight of his brother going down on hands and knees to kiss the earth when he came back from France as if the dusty courtyard of Café Leila was Shangri-la and he had escaped a labor camp.
Morad had no patience for these pampered men in pastel polo necks who left Iran for good after the revolution and had since grown richer but refused to shut up, reminiscing and driveling on like they had lost a toy. With utter revulsion, he scolded them. “I suppose the Sierras and the Pacific coast are not good enough for the Persian Polo Club, hmm?” Pleased with the facetious label he coined—polo shirts and polo (rice) eaters—“You prefer your beaches piled with trash?”
Chastened, they learned to curb their nostalgia in his presence. In his brutal boyhood Morad would have beaten some sense into them, but fortunately he found an outlet in American football. If it weren’t for the NFL warriors acting out his violent impulses, he may have unleashed the quick fury of a boxer on these hapless immigrants. Morad devoted entire Sunday afternoons to watching the games alone in the den. He lived for the flagrant violence, the satisfying slow-motion replay of it, because it wasn’t a movie with stuntmen, but real men manifesting his notions of manhood. Farah tiptoed in only to bring a meal tray he barely acknowledged, and left just as quietly.
For Marjan’s sake, a faithful Farah settled for this imperfect version of her childhood dream and never complained, reasoning that people settled for far less all the time; nevertheless, her eyes brimmed with sorrow.
While a cold anger swelled in Morad’s belly and a taste of metal lingered in his mouth, Farah awaited Mehrdad and Noor’s arrival with open delight. She aired the guest rooms and refreshed the bathrooms with scented soaps and green apple shampoos. Multiple trips to the grocery store had filled the refrigerator with gallons of whole milk (otherwise never permitted), fruit yogurts, sugared cereals, cookies, potato chips, and candy (also forbidden), the likes of which had never been seen in this pantry. Doktor imposed a nonfat diet on the household—his breakfast had been the same for as long as they had been married: two pieces of dry wheat toast cut into tidy little squares and half a grapefruit sectioned with great precision and eaten in silence, but he still expected a staple of Persian rice and stew every night.
Even Marjan emerged from her room to inspect the cabinets and sighed a weary “Finally, some real food,” then shuffled back to her den with a bag of Doritos. Farah followed with a bowl of sour cream and onion dip but her daughter took a sniff and curled her lip. It didn’t matter, for even this familiar rebuff was endearing. At last her home would feel less barren. At last she could draw from the deep, dammed reservoir of love inside her to coddle these motherless children, because to Farah, even at eighteen or nineteen, they were babies, and for a whole week (the maximum time Morad allowed for their stay) she would pamper them with Iranian affection and American snacks.
Marjan showed little curiosity about her cousins. Adolescence had been cruel—coating her legs and forearms with thick black hair, knitting her eyebrows into a trellis, shadowing her upper lip with dark fur. In the bathroom adjacent to her bedroom, she pinched the pimples that peppered her forehead, repulsed and pleased by the sudden gush of puss that no amount of cleansing creams could diminish. Who, she wondered, had invaded her body? Who was this hairy, pockmarked creature in the mirror greeting her every morning with a fresh new blemish? If only she was someone else, like Tracy Banks or Ashley Avery with pale skin and fine golden hair on their arms. If only she could strip the jungle from her armpits. If only her parents were normal.
Farah, anxious for Marjan to fit in with the freshman class, had forced her to try out for the swim team. Of all things, Marjan thought. She could
barely swim a lap without gasping and to be partially naked in front of the entire school was a deranged idea. Marjan had loved soccer in elementary school. Like her father, she was a strong, fearless player, scoring goal after goal for her AYSO team and reveling in their victories. Farah and Morad went to the games with folding chairs and a thermos of tea and sectioned oranges. It was the only time she’d seen her father happy, showing her genuine affection with the nickname Tank. “Mow them down, Tank!” he’d shout from the sidelines, more than once inviting the referee to admonish him, oblivious to the long looks from other parents.
Then in the fall of seventh grade, Marjan announced she would no longer play soccer and Morad stormed out in a huff like it was a personal offense against him, and the only good thing that came of it was that he no longer called her by that unfortunate nickname. That ghaar lasted over a month.
“Swimming is the best exercise,” chirped Farah, walking into her room with bright Speedo suits.
“Not if you’re a gorilla,” cried Marjan.
“Who is gorilla? You are beautiful and this will look so pretty on you, dear heart.” Farah finally furnished her with pink disposable razors, warning, “You are soft as sheep now. If you shave the arms, you will see a real gorilla . . . and don’t you dare touch your virginia!”
Sheared as best she could, Marjan went to the first practice—it was also the last, for she spent the rest of the season hiding out in the library and running to wet her hair and suit a few minutes before Farah picked her up. It wasn’t so much the swimming, but the showering and the locker room exhibition that stunned her. Nude in full view, teammates gossiped and shampooed leisurely and no doubt she would’ve eventually gotten used to that, but it was the sight of Sheila Schaefer shaving her vagina that had distressed her. Why on earth would anyone do that, she wondered, and would it grow back, like her mother said, not like a lamb, but in coarse black bristles like her father’s five o’clock shadow? It was appalling to leave that delicate seam bare.
Of course, the scene was too alarming to discuss with her mother, and for all she knew, her handful of friends did the same, so Marjan spent most of her adolescence alone, rejecting Farah’s pleas to have slumber parties. Even the arrival of cousins did not alter her sense of alienation—she was just relieved for the distraction they provided her mother.
In the weeks prior to Noor and Mehrdad’s arrival, Farah maintained an exhausting cheerfulness in front of Marjan and Morad, as if to convey a sense of hospitality she knew they lacked. It was hard for them to pass through doors in the house without being startled by her sudden gleeful appearance. Morad staged a frozen smile and made awkward lurching motions to get past her, while Marjan resisted the impulse to scream. The only benefit of these newcomers was the appearance of Pop-Tarts (a coveted snack she’d seen kids munching on the school bus).
They only stayed for a week but it felt like an occupation, forcing Marjan to retreat even further. Given the grace of it—the sudden appearance of two cousins in her life, it was a missed opportunity for kindness, for rescue and camaraderie. If she had invited Noor to her room, Marjan would have discovered a girl equally estranged and riven by doubt, but she quickly decided that Noor was weird like her parents, and that they had nothing in common but a last name. And Mehrdad being shockingly handsome made Marjan ever more fretful about her appearance.
Farah gave it her best—a wholehearted welcome she hoped was contagious. Oh, if you only knew how much you need one another, she thought, knocking softly on the closed bedroom doors to invite the children down to breakfast.
THE FIRST CARE PACKAGE to arrive for Noor at Mills College was from Farah. She found a slip in her mailbox and collected a large box from the mailroom filled with a careful selection of things Farah guessed her niece may be homesick for: fruit leather and dried plums from the Persian market, homemade sour cherry jam, but also, instant coffee, Pop-Tarts, M&M’s, tampons, Juicy Fruit gum, soap, shampoo, and deodorant tucked in between.
What a scent filled the room when she ripped off the lid—at once familiar and exotic. She had never used tampons before, but had noticed the pink applicators in the bathroom bin and wondered what they were for. Even after reading the instructions carefully, it took multiple tries and hot tears before she succeeded, overcome with an urgent need to call Pari with news of this wonderful invention. Ah, to wear underwear without that nasty thick wad between her legs, wondering, always wondering, if it would saturate when she was sitting on the bus or in a classroom, blood seeping through, leaving an unmistakable stain when she stood up, waiting for everyone to leave before making a lateral exit. At last she felt, oh, what was the word she was looking for? Clean? No . . . fresh.
There was a fragrance to everything here and Noor could not help but sniff her way to belonging. It all started with the morning shower—a ritual so sacred in her dorm that it seemed the obvious place to start. After all, these were the cleanest human beings she had ever seen. At home, a luxurious evening bath every other day or so had been sufficient, but to emerge smelling fresh, she must lather daily and apply lotion liberally. She must also drink coffee, chew gum, and carry flavored lip balm. Gone were the organic scents of home, the rosewater, the wood-burning stove, the pile of rotting leaves in the yard, jasmine, hyacinth, incense, ripe melons, Zod’s tobacco. America was the boy who wears too much cologne and Noor had a mad crush on him.
Thanks to Aunt Farah, a clear path appeared and Noor marched its scented trail. Throughout her college years the packages arrived at regular intervals, providing the essential ingredients to naturalization.
NOOR AND MEHRDAD SPENT most of their school holidays at their uncle’s house. They watched their classmates transform in anticipation of these breaks, tingling with the excitement of slipping home as soon as the last final exam was taken, while Noor and Mehrdad did not know what to expect or what to do in the long idle days that stretched before them.
Dispatched by Farah to fetch Noor for Thanksgiving dinner, Mehrdad was driving down Highway 1 in his brand-new Firebird, annoyed with Noor’s frequent wails of “Aaaagh!” Nauseated, his sister lay on the backseat of the car, resting her head on his denim jacket.
Mehrdad’s square shoulders rose above the seat and Noor observed his profile when he fiddled with the radio dial. He had arrived in Oakland two days earlier with Reza, a friend from school, and Noor hardly recognized him with his long hair and mustache. But when he took his sunglasses off, she knew those autumn brown eyes and he looked happy to see her. Noor had invited Nassim and the four of them went to the movies and suddenly Mehrdad wasn’t so serious . . . her brother was funny! When did this happen? He was cracking jokes, imitating Uncle Morad’s menacing voice until Noor almost choked on her popcorn and begged him to stop.
“Let me know if I have to pull over,” Mehrdad said. “Please don’t throw up in my car!”
Neither of them was in a hurry to get to Uncle Morad’s, so Noor asked him to stop the car and they climbed out to stand on a crest of a grass-covered cliff overlooking the sparkling blue Pacific. A cold wind was pushing them back, but it felt good and Noor took a few deep breaths. It was nice standing so close to her brother and following his gaze below to where tiny black dots floated on the waves. Surfers. They so easily fit into this California landscape that was open and wild and that was slowly becoming hers. And my brother, too, she thought, though he can be cruel, poke fun at me, know just what to say to hurt my feelings, he will always be mine.
“Feeling better?”
“No.”
“Wanna stop at McDonald’s?”
For some reason this was the funniest thing Noor had ever heard and they both burst out laughing.
Sixteen
The snow had stopped by the time Zod woke up. He eased down the stairs, avoiding the creaky second and fourth step so as not to wake Naneh Goli, and walked outside into the unmarked snow in his house slippers. Tehran is never prettier than when she’s draped in snow and he just had to see it, to look back at
his tracks and the tulip prints of a small bird, to know its depth.
He picked up a handful of powdery snow and washed his face. Ah, the close freshness of it! Soft and white everywhere, it glittered against the dark tree trunks, charging his little yard with such brightness it was hard to believe anything could sleep in the winter. His thoughts turned to his children then. How they would hoot and hop to see this, as if he had forgotten that they no longer slept upstairs in the bedrooms that faced the snowy rooftops. But there was not a soul and not a cry.
He began to wipe the front window with his bare hands to have a clear view of the garden from the kitchen table, and when he brushed the flakes away there was Naneh Goli looking out at him with a big grin, a thick knitted cap pulled over her head and two or three scarves wound around her neck. She was wriggling into an old coat to join him. Zod smiled back and motioned her to stay put. He was growing cold but he did not want company interrupting the stillness just yet.
Increasingly, Naneh Goli kept a close eye on him for any signs of gloom. A few months before, he had taken Nina her breakfast tray and found her dead. She had fallen out of bed and hit her head on the nightstand. So Naneh Goli was relieved now to see him smile, just as she was when he brushed his teeth and changed his underwear, though he no longer shaved as often—bearing his grief with dignity. It was order that held them so. They continued to cook and clean as if their lives depended on it. Morning and night, they built a fire, they set the tables and polished the silver—all to close the gaps that might let sorrow creep in.
Back inside at the kitchen table, they allowed themselves a long interval to sip tea and gaze out the window while two eggs bubbled in a pot on the stove. They sat like a tableau inside a snow globe, enclosed in their quiet world until lunch preparations shook them up. After breakfast Zod swept the ashes from the grill and spread them near the entrance so customers wouldn’t slip on the ice. He soaked prunes and took out meaty shanks to roast with onions for plum soup. He shaped chickpea patties, strained yogurt, and stirred quince custard.
